


Heavy Weapons and How to Make Them

by Armengard



Series: Heavy Weapons [2]
Category: Horizon: Zero Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Free Heap, Horizon Zero Dawn (Video Game), Petra is still bae, Post-Apocalyptic Strap-Ons y'all, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 19:36:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10543155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Armengard/pseuds/Armengard
Summary: Aloy learns how love is forged. It helps that Petra is a fabulous teacher.Sequel to "Heavy Weapons and How to Use Them."





	

As many times as Aloy has visited Free Heap in the past year or so, she has never seen Petra Forgewoman actually forge something.

Most of the time, she will arrive in town after a week—or longer, or shorter—of traveling the untamed wilds to find Petra already finished with her latest project, which usually will be a ridiculously heavy gun-cannon-fire-or-ice-spewing-beast that is always unwieldy, ear-ringingly loud and near-terrifying to use. Aloy will test it out, gladly, and then Petra will tinker with the weapon afterwards, fixing this or that, or swapping one part out for another. But tinkering is not the same as building. She is Petra Forgewoman, not Petra Tinkerwoman.

Now, she forges, and Aloy watches. She’s had decent hunting the past few days, and brought Petra several gifts of rare, hard-won machine parts, some with nary a scratch on them. Even Aloy is surprised she’d gotten that Snapmaw heart out virtually unscathed—the part, not Aloy, she’d gotten a nasty bruise on her left side, but it wasn’t anything some strong herbs couldn’t fix. She’d been very proud of herself, handing the gleaming parts over to Petra that morning.

Naturally, the very first thing Petra does with the parts is tear them into pieces with her hands, skin protected by a pair of thick boarhide gloves. At Aloy’s incredulous expression, she stops.

“What?”

“I thought you needed the entire part.”

“I do. But I don’t need it all put together. Did I not tell you that?”

Aloy lowers her forehead into her hand and sighs. She can hear Petra chuckling at her and growls, “Just get on with it, already.” Next time, she’ll bring her every tiny broken bit of a machine she can find, and let Petra sort through the mess herself.

Still laughing, Petra goes back to work, quickly and efficiently stripping and separating the machine parts. When a piece is too thick to remove by hand, she uses a metal hammer or pry-lever to wrench them apart. Then, when the scraps are deemed small enough, she sorts them into the different types of metal. If she isn’t sure which is which, she licks them, spreads the flavor around in her mouth, and then winks at Aloy, who has once again covered her face with her hand.

Once she’s made a small mound of each type, Petra takes one pile and seals the scraps into a heavy, hollow, odd-looking cylinder—it isn’t metal, but some material Aloy isn’t familiar with—then places it into the base of the blazing fire of her forge.

“Now we get it nice and hot,” Petra says, taking hold of the twin bellows built into the side of the forge, pumping them up and down methodically. Aloy observes for a bit, then offers to help, and Petra lets her, telling her when to slow down or speed up, according to the color of the flame. When the fire is almost pure white—it takes the better part of an hour, and Aloy’s arms are hurting by then—Petra uses a long pair of tongs to extract the glowing cylinder, cracks it open, and pours the bright, molten liquid out into a rectangle-shaped mold. There, it cools.

The process is repeated several times with each of the metals, melted down and formed anew, until Petra has half-a-dozen-or-so slugs to work with, and Aloy’s arms and shoulders are completely dead. Still, they’re far from done.

At the anvil, Petra holds a reheated, blazing hot slug in place with her tongs, and with her other hand, she lifts a mighty steel hammer. With incredible force and precision, she begins to beat the glowing metal chunk flat. In less than a dozen strikes, her back and shoulders gleam with sweat. When the metal gets too cool and risks snapping, she thrusts it back into the coals, and a wave of overwhelming heat rolls out from the forge like a stampede of frightened Grazers.

Aloy takes a turn or two with the hammer, just to see what it’s like, and is stunned by the weight of it, the strength it demands. It’s not just about brute strength, either, but accuracy and skill, bringing the head of the hammer down exactly where it needs to be on the metal. Petra takes the hammer back, and Aloy watches in awe as she works, the thick muscles in her arms and shoulders standing out against the layer of softness atop. Her face is stolid, glowing a fierce red from the forge as she concentrates on her work. Aloy has never seen her so serious, so focused. It is…interesting.

The work takes hours. They’re not even done yet, and the sun is already halfway through setting. They emerge from the forge into dusk with what seems to Aloy pitifully few pieces of metal, but Petra seems pleased by their progress, testing the newly forged parts against the frame she’s already constructed. A new heavy weapon, still being designed, still being forged. It's the smallest one Aloy has ever seen. She's excited to see how it will turn out.

Aloy is exhausted. She is covered in sweat, soot, dirt, and tiny flakes of metal. She has never envied Petra more for her short hair. Her back is soaked. Every muscle in her body aches. Her face feels tight from the vicious heat of the forge, and her hands are sore and blistered. But she has never felt more awake, more… _hungry_.

She thinks again of Petra’s face, the hidden strength of her arms and back—a Forgewoman’s arms, a Forgewoman’s back—and struggles through supper with the rest of Free Heap’s residents. No one draws attention to her reticence, and if Petra has realized something is off, she gives no notion. Mercifully, she declines swapping any stories or jokes with their friends tonight, and as soon as she stands from the campfire, Aloy seizes her hand and practically drags her into the forge.

She is on Petra before either of them can blink. Petra falls backwards onto her bedroll, Aloy mounting her a moment later. It’s hot down here, the heat of the forge bleeding through the walls and filling the air with its oppressive stuffiness. Aloy feels as though she can barely breathe.

They kiss for long moments until Aloy is practically writhing with need, but before she can work on removing Petra’s clothes, the other woman stops her.

“I built you something new,” Petra says, her grin positively filthy. “A present.”

“Something new?” Aloy says, and tries to think what it could be. “A weapon?”

“You could say that.”

“Well, maybe I can test it out tomorrow?”

“It’s not _that_ kind of weapon.”

“What?”

“Close your eyes.”

Aloy obeys, her heart kicking in her chest as Petra rolls out from under her, leaving her alone in the bedroll. She and Petra have been together many times by now, dozens upon dozens, but the other woman always manages to make it feel like the first. She’s nervous now, twisting the furs under her hands, dreadfully tempted to peek at her present.

“Can I get undressed?” she asks, suddenly impatient. She can hear Petra moving about the room, can hear the clack of her buckles and the thump of falling cloth, then the tightening of a belt.

“Might as well,” Petra replies. “I don’t want to make a mess.”

Aloy must set some sort of record with how fast her clothes come off. It’s not hard, even with her eyes shut, rolling from her back to her front, hands flicking at the hidden clasps in her armor and throwing the pieces carelessly to the side. Then Petra tells her she can open her eyes.

Aloy opens them, and stares. And then stares some more.

Petra is naked. The sight of her bare skin gives Aloy a little thrill, as it always does, but she is not completely naked—she is wearing exactly one thing, and Aloy can’t for the life of her figure out what it is. Sticking out from her crotch is a shaft made of a single piece of metal, perfectly smooth and cylindrical with a rounded tip and a slight curve throughout. It’s attached to a simple but sturdy looking leather harness strapped tightly to Petra’s hips, so the metal piece juts out rather intimidatingly, right at Aloy.

“What,” says Aloy, cocking her head to one side, “is _that?_ ”

“I’ll give you one guess, Flame-hair.”

Aloy hesitates. To be quite honest, it looks sort of like—

Oh. _Oh_. It’s a— It’s so— Because they’re women, they don’t have one, but the way Petra’s wearing it, she could— They could— This is truly something Aloy has never considered, has never even imagined. She turns bright red, feels her heart start to race, but doesn’t look away.

Petra closes the distance between them and kisses Aloy on the ear. “I’ll take it off, if you want me to,” she says. She does not sound at all disappointed, or angry. Still, Aloy wants very much to please her. And it’s not like she’s completely against the idea, just surprised. She’s never really considered having sex with a man, and what it would entail, though she knows basically how it works. Replacing the man with Petra and the smooth metal shaft seems infinitely more appealing. Aloy glances down at it, bobbing between Petra’s soft, white thighs, and then turns her face aside, shy.

“Keep it on,” she says, and Petra kisses her other ear.

“You’ll thank me later,” she growls, and gently tips Aloy over so she’s laying on the bedroll before moving atop her. They kiss slowly, open-mouthed and wanting, and Aloy feels the stir again from earlier as she remembers the forge, and Petra's strength, but the memory breaks when Petra shifts, and her "weapon" hits Aloy’s thigh.

Aloy gasps. The metal is cold and heavy but impeccably polished, buffed until it gleams like liquid in the firelight. On instinct she grabs it, and Petra stiffens atop her, making a short, startled sound. Aloy goes still. Had Petra…felt that? Curious, she pulls a bit on the shaft and Petra huffs in her ear appreciatively.

“It’s cold,” Aloy whispers to her.

“Why don’t you warm it up, then?” Petra teases back.

Already, some of the heat from Aloy’s hand has transferred to the cool metal. Somewhat unsure, she wraps her other hand around the shaft as well—it's long enough for both, one above the other—and rubs at the metal until it grows warm and slightly damp from her sweaty palms. Petra twitches and breathes heavily the entire time, struggling to keep her hips still, and Aloy watches her face and feels herself grow wet and eager. They kiss again, Petra’s breasts pressing against Aloy’s smaller pair, nipples tight and straining. Petra kisses those too, strokes her belly, her flanks, her thighs, all while Aloy holds tight to the metal shaft, as if unable to let go. Before long, she is pulling it to her. She wants to feel it inside.

With painstaking care, Petra nudges the tip of the shaft through the wet, dark red hair between Aloy’s legs, collecting sticky wetness until it glides smoothly between her lower lips. Aloy gasps at the sensation, the growing warmth of the metal, the near-frictionless slide of it. Petra doesn’t stop until the shaft is slippery with Aloy’s wetness, and Aloy is breathless, skin crawling with need.

Together, they shift—Petra backs her hips up, and Aloy tilts hers and spreads her legs—and then, quite suddenly, Petra is inside her; not all the way, since even Aloy knows that will take a little time. It’s just the tip and an inch or two, but already, Aloy can feel the stretch of it, the fullness. Before now, the largest thing she’d ever had inside of her was three of Petra’s wonderfully callused fingers, together almost as thick but nowhere near as long.

Petra eases forward, and then kisses her. Eases, and then kisses. The rhythm calms Aloy, eases the clamp of her muscles inside and out. She hadn’t even realized she's tensed up. She is intimately familiar with Petra’s lips and tongue, and takes comfort in their wet heat and texture. She relaxes until she feels like she's floating.

And then Petra’s belly touches hers, and Aloy realizes with a start she is all the way inside. She looks down, but can’t see anything other than Petra’s soft stomach and her own muscled one, her spread thighs resting on Petra’s generous hips. But she can sure feel it. How did all of that fit inside her? It seems impossible.

“Okay?” Petra asks, looking the slightest bit concerned through the sheen of her arousal. Aloy smiles dazedly at her. She feels weightless and dreamy. Her legs are tingling, and there is a pressure in her lower stomach she’s never felt before.

With great care, Petra withdraws the shaft—Aloy whimpers—and then pushes herself back in. Aloy’s eyes flutter. She can feel everything—the glide of the metal, the nudge of the rounded tip, the sweaty warmth of Petra’s naked flesh clinging to hers. She isn’t going to last much longer.

At the next thrust, she looks up to see Petra watching her with the same intensity as she’d watched her metal forming in the forge. It makes Aloy feel a bit like that molten metal, that pounded steel, and the pressure in her lower belly intensifies. Lightning shoots through her body, makes her shudder and clench around the shaft again, but she doesn’t look away. She can see the strength in Petra’s arms right now, can feel it in how her body is kept rigid and suppressed above her. She is being careful with Aloy, because the very last thing she wants to do is hurt her.

Realizing Petra’s dedication to her, her tenderness and affection, pushes Aloy into a seizing climax. All the muscles in her body go utterly still, and even Petra must feel it, the other woman halting her movements as Aloy shakes apart beneath her. When Petra leans down and kisses her softly on the mouth, Aloy stiffens and climaxes a second time, the pressure in her belly releasing suddenly. Down below, she gushes around the shaft, and Petra groans appreciatively and kisses her again.

Aloy slumps. She is beyond tired, and knows she will be sore in the morning. Panting atop her, Petra kisses her head and then jokes, “Want a turn?”

The breath leaves Aloy’s lungs. That, again, is something she never really considered, though clearly Petra has. Just thinking about it turns the blood in Aloy's veins to fire. To wear the weapon as Petra did, and take her as Aloy herself was just taken… The idea is— Is—

She grabs at the belt with feverish hands, her fatigue disappearing beneath a rush of adrenaline. Petra laughs and helps her, guiding her hands to the appropriate clasps, then fitting the straps to Aloy’s smaller hips until it is snug and secure against the wet, swollen part of her, jutting proudly upright from between her legs. The shaft glistens from her own wetness, and to Aloy’s shock and desire, Petra grips it with a sure hand and strokes her firmly, up and down.

Aloy knows it isn’t really a part of her, just metal and leather and whatever else, not flesh and blood, but she can _feel_ the tugs, the press and fall of pressure from Petra’s hand, and when Petra dips her head down to lap at the smoothly rounded head, she cries out, embarrassingly high and loud. Petra smirks at her but doesn’t pull away, running her tongue up and down the shaft, then taking nearly half of the entire thing into her mouth at once. Aloy can hear the wet suck of her lips, the slick drag of her tongue, and cries out again, sounding as if she’s in pain. The pounding is back between her legs. It’s never been so fierce.

She has a feeling Petra will tease her all night if given the option, so she jerks her hips away, pulling from Petra’s mouth with a moist _pop_ , and pushes the other woman onto her back on the furs. Petra _oofs_ , startled by the change in position, then grins, impressed by Aloy’s aggression.

Aloy wastes no time, and sinks in with absurd ease. Petra had taken time and care with her, but Aloy struggles to do the same, especially when Petra grips her by the rear, digs her nails in, and yanks her deeper. It seems as though she is almost immediately all the way inside, her hips cradled in Petra’s own. Petra is steaming hot down there, and so wet Aloy can hear it every time she pulls out and pushes back in.

The motion is strange at first, but Aloy, as always, catches on quickly. Her body is strong, and she finds she can easily hold herself up on her arms and rut hard with her hips, using her stomach muscles for extra force until she is thrusting so hard Petra’s body bounces up and down beneath her, her breasts moving hypnotically, her head thrown back. Aloy has never seen her so taken. She goes faster. Their hips clap together noisily, a wet slap of flesh against flesh. Aloy's lower stomach is sticky. So are the tops of her thighs.

In all their nights together, they are, for the most part, careful with one another, affectionate and tender. Petra can be so incredibly sweet it makes Aloy’s heart throb.

This is not one of those times. Aloy isn’t making love to Petra—she is fucking her.

Aloy can’t stop. Her stomach is burning. She bites at Petra’s bared throat, gasping when Petra digs her nails into her rear again, goading her on. How can this not hurt, Aloy wonders, slamming into Petra again and again with all the strength she can muster. How is she not breaking this woman beneath her? If anything, Petra seems more excited than before, her every breath ending with a cry. She keeps trying to sit up, maybe wanting to take over and get on top, and while the mental image is very appealing, it isn’t what Aloy wants right now.

With a firm hand, she holds Petra down, and with the other, she takes one of Petra’s legs and moves it until she can feel herself sink deeper than ever. At that, Petra finally stops her battle for dominance, flinging her head back and shouting hoarsely as she peaks. To her surprise, Aloy joins her a moment later, as if from friction alone, coming so hard she feels utterly drained afterwards. She flops face-down onto the roll next to Petra and tries not to immediately pass out.

“Did you like my present, Flame-hair?” Petra chuckles, licking her lips and wiping her sweaty forehead on her wrist. “Sure seems like you did.”

“I…” Aloy hesitates, momentarily confused. To be honest, she had enjoyed it, to the point of being concerned. What did it mean, that she’d loved fucking Petra with something that was supposed to be on a man? That she’d nearly melted when Petra had sucked on her—on it, _it_ —and then made her climax so hard she saw stars? She’d enjoyed taking Petra with it about a dozen times more than she’d liked Petra taking her. But that didn’t…well, _mean_ anything, did it?

Besides, Aloy is confident in who she is. She’s Aloy, machine hunter. Daughter of Rost, killer of Hades, and lover of Petra Forgewoman.

“I liked it,” Aloy mumbles into the furs, too embarrassed to move. She almost can’t believe what they’ve just done. She will think about this for weeks.

The memories keep her company when she leaves the next day, intent on exploring the cold northern mountains near Pitch Cliff. Every night, she curls up in her lonely bedroll and touches herself and misses Petra. It isn’t so satisfying anymore—the touching _and_ the traveling—when she is alone. She finds she is more restless than ever, but now it’s for something other than dusty ruins or a good hunt.

When she returns from her latest venture, five days later, Petra isn’t there. Aloy is confused when she rides up to Free Heap and is not greeted by her lover, but by Kaeluf, who shrugs, chagrined, and says Petra went to Daytower in the south to trade. Free Heap had been attacked by bandits while Aloy was gone, and they needed some supplies. Alarm and despair surges in Aloy's blood. If she hadn't left... She should've been there to help.

“Probably belonged to that same bandit crew as before," Beladga says casually, as if something like this happens all the time. "Well, we showed the fools. Routed them good and proper. They stole some things before they left, though. Our power cells, mostly. But nobody got killed on our side. Petra took an arrow. But then..."

Aloy gasps, feeling as if someone has punched her in the stomach. Seeing the sickened look on her face, everyone rushes to explain.

“—Barely grazed her, she means!” says Kaeluf.

“Little arrow would never stop Petra!” Jorgriz cries.

Aloy nods, feeling shaky and worried, as the others do their best to comfort her, saying Petra will be back soon, and Aloy could see just how fine she was then.

Daytower is not far from Free Heap. A three day trip, if one walked fast. But Petra went alone, and she went injured. Rather than head out after her, or run away in the other direction to avoid her panicked thoughts, Aloy decides to stay in Free Heap. She doesn’t replace Petra so much as fill in for her, helping to solve little spats among the townspeople or defending the walls from rogue Scrappers or Sawtooths.

A week goes by. Petra should be back in Free Heap by now, unless she decided to stay a few days in Daytower, though Aloy doubts this. Petra’s home is Free Heap, and as she’s said many times before, she’s had all the adventures she’d ever wanted in her youth. She must have been desperate to trade in Daytower, to not trust someone else to go on the journey in her stead. If Aloy had been in Free Heap when the bandits attacked… If she hadn’t gone off wandering, and left them behind…

Another week passes.

Aloy is not worried anymore. She is downright scared.

She spends her days pacing the roof of the forge, watching the road to Daytower. Half a dozen times, she’s started there, then stopped, worried Petra has picked another route to return home and Aloy will miss her. Or worse, if Aloy headed out, and then found Petra’s body somewhere, brutalized by the wild machines or robbed and murdered by bandits. But at least then she would know what happened. To even think it fills her with frigid terror. Which is better, she wonders—never seeing Petra again, or knowing without doubt she is dead?

And then Aloy stops, nauseous and cold all over, as she realizes this is probably how Petra feels, every single time Aloy leaves her for the wilds. It is something Aloy has done without thought, probably a hundred times over the past year. Left her. Left Petra, and made her feel like this.

She wants to retch. She wants to cry. She wants Petra to be safe, and come back to her. She isn’t sure what she’ll do if… If…

No. Aloy has lost too many people she cares for to lose another. She won’t let it happen again. She’s done waiting.

Aloy is packing her things, ready to head south and go looking for the damnable woman, when she hears a shout; “Message from Petra! Message from Petra!” and bolts to her feet.

It’s a traveler, just arrived in Free Heap. Everyone gathers around him for the news. He’s carrying several bags filled with parts and supplies, most likely from Petra’s successful trading. But Petra isn’t with him. Where is she?

“Are you Aloy?” the traveler asks, and Aloy nods, trying not to look too frantic. “Petra said to tell you she’s heading for Meridian.”

“Nothing else?”

The traveler goes a little pink. “She said, _come find me, Flame-hair_.”

For a moment, Aloy is surprised, then numb. A moment later, a flood of delirious relief and happiness surges through her.

She leaves Free Heap that night, the glowing blue eye of her Strider lighting the way for her as they gallop across the moonlit Sundom. By morning, she abandons her worn mount and sets off on foot. It isn’t long before she finds her first track, a bootprint Aloy knows matches Petra’s own. Petra isn’t being obvious about which road she’s taking, but she’s not trying to trick Aloy, either. In all, it is a very easy hunt. She doesn’t even need the Focus.

By evening, she sees a campfire in the distance, and the tight feeling in her chest that has lingered with her for days finally eases.

Petra looks up when the grass rustles, sees Aloy, and smiles so broadly her eyes squint. Aloy sees the bandage on her shoulder from the arrow she took when the bandits attacked, still stained with a small dot of dark red blood, and swallows thickly, expression pained.

“I’m alright,” Petra says soothingly. “Teach me to pay attention. Ha!” She jerks a thumb at her travel bag beside her, where Aloy can see a compact cannon atop it. She instantly recognizes the metal parts she personally watched Petra forge, sees how they’ve been fastened and used. The weapon is half the size of Petra’s usual fare, but appears just as powerful. “I tried to use my latest weapon on them, and the damned thing didn’t fire! Shoulda seen how stupid I looked, waving that thing around!”

Aloy doesn’t find it funny. She sits next to Petra at the fire, pressed as close as she can, and holds her until they go to bed.

As they set off together the next day, Aloy feels the aching, restless part of her finally cease its relentless pacing. She is happy again.

They are a long way from Meridian. Aloy is tempted to call them a mount, but they strike up some luck, and come across a caravan of wagons heading for the capitol. One of the traders knows Petra, and nearly everyone knows Aloy, and they are offered a ride, free of charge. While Aloy would prefer to be alone with Petra, she knows this will make the trip a little more manageable, and they agree.

Meridian is, of course, as grand as ever. Many of its broken walls have been rebuilt, forged as good as new, though Aloy can pinpoint the unseen scars from their battle with Hades, even a year later. She knows exactly where Helis fell when he died, the stain his blood had left on the ground. Her thoughts turn darker, until Petra takes her hand and pulls her along, excited as a child after being away from the city for many years.

Petra takes Aloy to the great elevator leading up to the Sun King and his mighty throne, pointing out the exact pieces she helped put in, the forgework she did on the bolts and braces. She even shows her one massive wooden beam carved with the jagged letters of her own name, and Aloy is impressed and proud and filled with respect.

They browse the shops for anything new and Aloy checks in at the Hunter’s Lodge to see Talanah, who is doing well as the Sunhawk. The Lodge is bustling with new members, no longer banning those of lower castes, as that idiot Ahsis had done. Talanah mentions a few hunts of note—a pack of Stalkers prowling the lower forests, and a rogue Thunderjaw to the north who’d already killed several amateur hunters too eager to prove their worth. Aloy declines a chance to seek it out. Redmaw had been more than enough of an opponent.

“I remember you,” says Talanah to Petra. “From the battle. You had that ridiculous weapon.”

“I remember you too, kitten,” says Petra. “You’re cute. Good thing I’ve got my Nora here. Otherwise you’d be in for it.” Then she walks off to admire the slain machine trophies on the far wall. Aloy is beyond embarrassed. She doesn’t think her face has ever been so red.

Far from offended, Talanah just says, “ _Oseram_ ,” and rolls her eyes, as if that explains everything. Really, it sort of does.

They decline an audience with the Sun King—Aloy is still wary of the King pretending she is Ersa, someone and something she will never be, and besides, he has an entire city to worry about, and with the clans mostly at peace, it’s not like they have another war to plan for.

They do stop to chat with Erend. He seems to be staying away from alcohol, which Aloy approves of. He greets Petra gamely enough, but doesn’t seem to realize who she is in relation to Aloy, and when he shyly asks Aloy to eat with him—and his men, he adds quickly—Petra’s grin turns vicious, but not condescending. She doesn’t tear Aloy away from him, or even throw an arm around her possessively. In fact, she seems to egg Erend on, claiming she can entertain herself for the evening if need be, so Aloy can “run off and play.”

Aloy glares at Petra and turns Erend down, but does agree to accompany him and his soldiers on their next patrol. Erend seems mollified and nods to them both before leaving. As soon as he’s out of earshot, Aloy whirls on Petra.

“What was that for?”

“I like to see you squirm,” Petra says, and then Aloy really does squirm, because how can she not, when Petra uses that kind of voice, low and suggestive, and looks at her with those drowsy, half-lidded eyes?

They find a room at a cozy inn in Meridian Village, the city towering high above them like a mountain. The moon is high when Petra announces she wants to take Aloy on the town, and sweeps her out of the inn and into the bustling underbelly of the city before Aloy can protest.

Despite the late hour, there are a lot of people bustling in Meridian. Many are drinking. Others are shouting or singing. The noise rattles Aloy, but doesn’t scare her like a roaring machine would. It’s just something new, and as Aloy has discovered, she likes new things.

Petra, on the other hand, seems invigorated by the commotion. She takes odd turns and side streets until Aloy is dizzy and hopelessly lost. She grips Petra’s hand tighter than ever. If they get separated, it’ll take days to find her way out of here. They descend a staircase, then another, take one more turn, and emerge in a cramped but warm looking area bursting with storefronts and people.

Aloy has never been to this part of the city. She can immediately tell why. Bar fights can be heard all along the street. People are gambling in plain view, and nobody seems particularly worried about guards. A sign nearby reads _Low Meridian_.

“What kind of place is this?” Aloy asks, a little worried. She really doesn’t want to get arrested, or in a fight. Both seem inevitable down here.

“A place no Nora would ever rightfully be. Come on.”

The night is a whirlwind from then on. Aloy is shuttled back and forth across the street from one activity to another. Petra shows Aloy how to play an odd game with glass balls and a long stick meant to knock them into each other, then brings her to another where players throw sharpened bolts by hand into a board on the wall. Aloy is used to a bow, but her bare hands are equally as skilled, and she hits the bright-red target on her second throw. The entire bar erupts in amazement. Someone buys Aloy a drink. Aloy gives it to Petra, who drains it in a single quaff before carting Aloy off for another game and a laugh.

It is, frankly, the most fun Aloy has had in a while.

Then Petra leads Aloy to another building further down the street. It’s darker here. It smells strange. Heady, like incense. Inside is a large, dimly lit room dotted with soft cushions and chairs, somewhat spread out, with filmy curtains in between, as if to give the impression of some kind of privacy. Most of the workers here are women, but there are a few men, and—

“Did you bring me to a brothel?” Aloy practically squeals, ready to run back out.

“Nah,” says Petra. “Maybe next time. This place, they just dance.”

Dance? Aloy relaxes the slightest bit, then tenses right back up when a girl with an elaborately painted face walks by. She is wearing a small loincloth and absolutely nothing else. Her breasts are as big as Petra’s. She sees Aloy staring and eyes her appreciatively in return. Aloy has never been more grateful for poor lighting. She feels like the top of her head is about to erupt. Beside her, Petra looks like this is the greatest day of her life.

“You like that one?” she asks, nodding at the girl who’d just walked by. She motions, and the girl comes over. She is beautiful. She’s older than Aloy but younger than Petra by a good ten or fifteen years. Aloy feels more awkward than when Rost gave her a speech about how babies were made.

Petra helps Aloy into a chair—pushes her down, mostly—then leans close to whisper, “Will you let me buy you a dance?” Aloy knows they will leave if she truly wants to, that Petra will always listen to her before making her do something she doesn’t like, and feels safe and just the slightest bit intrigued by this new experience. It’s just a dance. A dance can’t be that bad, can it?

It can.

Petra sits in a chair opposite them, and the girl steps in front of Aloy and smiles at her. Aloy blushes and doesn’t even attempt to smile back. Then the girl begins to dance, following the dip and sway of a keening instrument in the background. It’s as if her bones are made of water, her hips and stomach undulating to the muted rhythm. She sways close to Aloy, then pulls away, teasing. Then she runs her hands up her own torso and cups her breasts, making Aloy sweat. Petra chuckles faintly.

Aloy is acutely aware that Petra is watching them, and sits on her hands so nobody can see how they’re clutching, white-knuckled, at her pants. The girl glances between the two of them and catches on to their game at once, winking cheekily at Petra before threading a long-fingered hand into Aloy’s thick red hair and lowering herself right into her lap, pressing their hips together. She weighs almost nothing. Aloy gulps. This is only the second person to touch her so intimately. She can’t stop staring at the girl's breasts. How is Petra not furious with jealousy right now? Aloy doesn’t know how she’d feel if their positions were reversed.

The girl sighs wantonly in Aloy's ear and rubs against her like an animal in heat, her breasts a warm, insistent pressure against Aloy’s front, but doesn’t actually touch Aloy somewhere it would matter, like between her legs, and doesn’t invite Aloy to do so to her, though she does take Aloy’s hands out from under her and cover her bare breasts with them. Her nipples are hard. She smells like sweat and spice.

Aloy bites her lip until she tastes blood and looks over the girl’s slender shoulder at Petra, who is leaning forward with that infuriating grin on her face. Her eyes are bright and excited, near gleeful. Aloy suffers through the rest of the dance, thanks the girl curtly, and storms out, Petra following closely.

In silence, they make their way back to Meridian Village and their room at the inn. Aloy stews the entire way. She is halfway between furious and unspeakably aroused. How could Petra bring her to a place like that? And why?

It becomes incredibly apparent why Petra brought her there when their room door is firmly shut and bolted, as Aloy’s blood has been stirring to the point where she would probably take Petra right there in the street if she’d had one iota less of patience.

As it is, Aloy grabs Petra and practically throws the other woman on the bed—a nice big one, with a down mattress and a sturdy frame—and attacks her like an animal, tearing at her clothes in a frenzy. Petra does not seem the least bit surprised—she expected this. Planned it.

“I—I brought it,” Petra gets out between fierce kisses, unusually flustered and already panting. “My bag. It’s in my bag.”

 _What’s in your bag?_ Aloy wants to ask, but she already knows. Of course— _of course_ Petra brought her little "weapon," as she so lovingly dubbed it. Aloy will question her about that later. Right now, it’s exactly what she wants and needs.

The metal shaft is out and on in less than a minute, their clothes shucked and thrown about in disarray. Aloy is still so angry, still so desire-stricken she manhandles Petra without a second thought, turning the other woman over so she is on her hands and knees on the bed. She pushes Petra’s face down into the soft blankets, admires the entirety of her smooth white back, flecked with scars and beauty marks, and sinks into her from behind. Petra gasps, pushing back into Aloy eagerly. She is so wet the shaft doesn’t give a single hitch. Aloy's hips touch the backs of Petra's thighs, and she stays there, relishing the sensation of skin-on-skin, until Petra is squirming beneath her.

Aloy imagines the dancing girl, sees her smooth belly, her generous breasts and pink nipples. Then she imagines the girl giving Petra her attention this time, imagines how she’d feel, watching them entangled together, and snarls aloud, aroused and jealous and voraciously hungry all at once. With no warm up, she pounds mercilessly into the other woman, sinking her fingers hard into her soft, giving hips, knowing she will leaves bruises, and listens to Petra choke and moan and try to buck back against her, but unable to keep up with Aloy’s brutal pace. This woman drives her mad.

Petra's top half collapses against the bed. The only thing keeping her hips up is Aloy and her wonderful weapon. When Aloy looks down, she can see everything, how wet Petra is, how stretched, the gleam of the metal shaft as it enters and exits her. The sight breaks her. She comes before Petra and falls backwards, her muscles gone limp, the shaft pointing lecherously at the ceiling, covered in a clear wetness. Aloy can't even catch her breath before Petra climbs atop her, straddling the shaft and sinking onto it with a wet, kissing sound. Her pace is fast and hard, dropping her body forcefully onto Aloy's hips with every thrust. Aloy clutches Petra's thighs, trying to hold on. It feels like Petra is trying to pound her right through the mattress.

The sound of their fucking is raw and explicit. Wet slaps, hard breathing, lusty moans. Their neighbors in the next room can probably hear them. Aloy doesn't care. She licks her fingers and searches through Petra's soaked pubic hair for her sweet spot, finding the hard, swollen nub and rubbing it fiercely. Petra convulses and fucks herself on the weapon even harder, knocking all the breath from Aloy's lungs. She rubs faster. Her vision dims. Just before she passes out or loses her mind, Petra comes, head flung back, breasts shining with sweat, wetness rolling down the gleaming metal shaft sunk between her legs. It's probably the most beautiful thing Aloy has ever seen.

They spend two days in Meridian. They don’t return to the dancing parlor, though not for Petra’s lack of trying. Aloy thinks maybe she will go again one day with Petra, but doesn’t want to rush. They can take these things slowly. Instead, she patrols with Erend and his men and visits Talanah again, enjoying the simple company of her good friends.

Before Aloy knows it, she and Petra are packed to leave, and on the great bridge leading out of the city. Aloy finds she is slightly reluctant to go. Leaving means this journey with Petra will eventually come to an end. She needs a reason for them to stay together, to travel even longer, chasing the fluttering feeling in her chest, the ache in her heart.

Petra seems to notice her hesitance, and asks, “What’s the matter, Flame-hair?”

Aloy pauses. There is a place she suddenly wants very much to take Petra, but she is unsure if she will agree to come.

“I…” Aloy starts. Petra looks at her, and waits. “I wanted to go back. To the Embrace. To the Nora Lands. Not—not to stay,” she says quickly, when something almost like panic flashes in Petra’s eyes, “but to visit. Just a day or two, maybe. But it’s far. And I, um. I don’t want to go alone.”

There’s a moment of silence.

“Free Heap will be alright a little longer without me,” Petra says, making it sound as if it’s her idea to come along, and not Aloy’s. This way, Aloy has a final way out, and can turn Petra down if she suddenly changes her mind. As always, Aloy is touched by her thoughtfulness.

The journey is long, twice again the road between Free Heap and Meridian, and will take far too many days on foot, so Aloy Overrides a Strider and then leads it back to their camp the next morning.

“Let’s try this again,” she says to Petra, who laughs good-naturedly, remembering her first attempt at riding a machine. Aloy mounts first, giving the Strider a few nudges, testing its placidity. When it seems calm, she holds out a hand and helps Petra up, settling the other woman on the Strider’s wide rump. The machine tenses for a moment, then attempts to turn itself around, as if to see who else has climbed onto its back. Aloy tends to it with a steady hand, using her heels to spur the machine forward into a very slow walk.

Petra wraps her arms around Aloy’s middle and shifts herself as close as possible, until her entire front is pressed against Aloy’s back.

“Oh, I’m going to enjoy this,” she hums in Aloy’s ear.

For her part, Aloy swallows and tries to ignore her, kicking the mount into a racing gallop.

It takes twelve days to reach Nora land. Every night, they dismount their machine with Aloy flustered and buzzing, Petra grinning and smug from a day's worth of groping and whispered promises. Aloy will send the mount away and hunt for a quick meal while Petra starts a fire and unpacks their bedrolls. Aloy will gulp down her meal without tasting it, then stare intently at Petra while the other woman takes her time. Sometimes Aloy will not wait until she’s done, knocking the meat from her hand and pulling her down onto the bedroll, intent on enacting her revenge for the long day of torment. Nobody can hear them out here, and Aloy makes it her mission to make Petra scream.

There are so many ways to bring pleasure, Aloy has learned. Hands, fingers, mouths, lips, tongue—and weapon. They touch each other under the stars in all of these ways, crying out into the night, and wake in the morning, sated and ready for the long road ahead. It’s the longest Aloy has spent with Petra in a successive amount of days. Rather than grow accustomed to her, or bored in any way, Aloy finds herself yearning for her more than ever.

The sight of the snow-capped mountains of her childhood sends a pang through Aloy’s chest. This may not be home anymore, but it’s a welcome sight nonetheless.

It’s colder here than Petra is used to, so Aloy buys her a short cloak from a merchant at Mother’s Crown a day before they reach the gate to Mother’s Embrace. Petra, used to the overpowering heat of her forge and the desert itself surrounding Free Heap, laughs at how her own teeth chatter in the chill, and huddles close to Aloy at night.

“Warm me up, Flame-hair,” she whispers, and Aloy always complies.

Varl is happy to see her, Sona less so, but Aloy is used to the War-Chief’s stony façade. The Matriarchs greet her warmly with hugs and blessings, and Aloy manages to catch them before any can touch her feet in reverence. An Oseram stranger in the midst of Nora causes some commotion, and people rush from their huts to see Petra, asking her endless questions about everything all at once. Petra seems entertained by the attention, and Aloy hangs back to enjoy the sight of the older woman out of her element for once. The entire village gathers at the base of All-Mother Mountain, and they have a feast to celebrate Aloy’s return, though Aloy makes sure to impress upon them she is not staying. Though they are disappointed, they seem to appreciate she came back at all.

As the sun begins to creep behind the mountains and dusk falls, Aloy leads Petra up the steep trail to the hut where she grew up. Petra is huffing and puffing by the time they arrive, laughing at herself, then falls quiet when she sees the small monument Aloy built in Rost’s name. Aloy has told Petra about the man who became her father, who taught her everything, how he died and how he lived. Now, with visible reverence, Petra kneels with Aloy before the shrine and bows her head to pay her respects.

The hut is just as Aloy left it, cold, untouched. Empty. Without prompting, Petra starts a fire in the hearth while Aloy fetches water and supplies, and when she comes back inside, it is warm, and not quite so empty. She smiles gratefully at Petra, who smiles back and kisses her on the temple. Together they cook a hearty supper. As they eat, Aloy tells Petra about her childhood, how she fell into the ruins near Mother’s Cradle and found the Focus she stills wears today, and how Rost had taught her how to hunt and string a bow and track a machine. Remembering him now doesn't hurt so much as it did before.

For the first time since Rost died, Aloy realizes she is in their house and doesn’t feel alone.

They tuck themselves into Aloy’s comically small bed—Petra refuses to use Rost’s, supposedly out of respect, though Aloy suspects she just wants to lay against her. Her suspicions are proven when Petra kisses her slowly until Aloy is sweating beneath her furs.

Petra doesn’t take their clothes off, just loosens Aloy’s drawstrings and slips her hand inside her furs, stroking Aloy gently between the legs. Aloy buries her face into Petra’s warm neck, moving her hips in time until she is obscenely wet, and Petra slides two of her wonderfully callused fingers inside of her, spreading her wetness around until her entire hand is sticky with it. She kisses Aloy’s red ears, her jaw, her neck, murmuring sweet nothings into the quiet of the room. It is completely different from the heated night in Meridian, and Aloy shudders and climaxes after many minutes of long, drawn-out touching, feeling as rung out as a scrap of cloth.

Petra gives Aloy the next day to herself, telling her she’ll be combing the market or chatting with the locals. Aloy appreciates the sentiment—she will use the time to herself to make peace with leaving Nora land, quite possibly for good.

She kneels at Rost’s memorial, says what might be her final goodbye. She seeks out Varl, thanks him for everything—Teb, too. She'll miss them both. She even hikes up to Odd Grata’s hut to say goodbye, though she’s not entirely sure the old woman understands. Still, she feels better once she’s done.

She waits for Petra back in Rost’s hut, hearing her heavy breaths before she even reaches the front step.

“I swear,” Petra growls as she steps inside, “you Nora and your mountains. Give me the desert any day!” She doesn’t ask how Aloy’s day was. She seems to know, and after eating, they huddle together in Aloy’s bed without a word, and fall asleep holding each other.

Early the next day, they are gone.

The air warms the farther north they go. Soon they can see the jagged teeth of the northern mountains, and turn west, taking the long way around to Free Heap, avoiding the high pass at Daytower.

“Being there once is enough,” Petra jokes. Aloy is glad for the extra time they will have together.

A part of her is sad that this is coming to an end. She’s gotten used to seeing Petra every day, to waking up beside her in the morning and kissing her to sleep at night. Does it make her weak, to want this all the time, or strong? She isn’t sure.

Three days from Free Heap, they are attacked.

Aloy guesses the Thunderjaw has been hunting them for some time. It might even be the rogue Talanah had warned her about, back at the Lodge. She doesn’t know how she missed the telltale rumble of its footsteps, or the way birds went flapping and cawing frantically from its wake. Perhaps she is not as good a hunter as she thought. Or perhaps she is too lost in her own thoughts to notice the looming danger.

When she feels the earthquake of its footsteps, it’s already too late. Petra twists around on the Longhorn they’d mounted that morning and has enough time to shout—and then the beast is there, firing a screaming ray of searing crimson energy into the ground under them, destroying the Longhorn and sending her and Petra flying with a monstrous blast.

Aloy scrambles to her feet and shouts to Petra, “Hide!” She knows without question she will be the one to fight and kill this rampaging machine, so she crafts a handful of arrows with unerring speed and then readies herself for battle.

She is still preparing when she looks up and sees Petra standing right in front of the Thunderjaw. In her hand is the cannon Aloy helped her build, about the size of her forearm, the one Petra had tried to fight the bandits at Free Heap with. The one that hadn’t worked.

Aloy watches in abject horror as Petra hits a trigger of some kind, and the weapon misfires. The Thunderjaw lifts and them slams its back foot with tremendous force into the rocks by Petra, causing an avalanche of broken slate, bowling her over. She disappears in a cloud of dust.

Seeing this, Aloy is a statue. Her blood has turned to ice. She is wearing her Spirit-Weaver armor, so when the Thunderjaw spins around and smashes her in the torso with its tail, sending her flying into the rocks, she isn’t hurt, just stunned. Her armor beeps and trills in warning, already overloaded from just one hit. Still, the armor can’t cushion everything, and her body protests in agony as she fights her way to her feet.

The Thunderjaw is readying itself for a charge, aiming for Aloy. It will trample her beneath its broad feet with ease, and her armor is still blinking red. Before she can decide what to do, how to die, Petra is once again dashing in front of her, covered in dust and not a little blood, hair mussed, arm up, pointing the small cannon at the Thunderjaw.

Aloy is still dizzy, so she’s not sure if it fires or not—the Thunderjaw is so loud, its scream encompassing everything—but then she looks up and sees the Thunderjaw lunge for Petra. Petra doesn’t scream when the Thunderjaw hits her. She makes no sound at all. Her body lifts as if it is a dummy made of grass and goes rolling down a small gully and lays limp at the bottom. She does not move.

Aloy sees Rost, saving her moments before his own death at the Proving, and screams. Then she sees red.

Her hands are moving before her mind can catch up. She snatches up her sling, lobs bomb after bomb until she runs out, then switches to arrows until the Thunderjaw is bristled as a porcupine.

When she runs out of those, she takes out her ropecaster. She fires until the beast falls like a broken mountain, pinned down in a scream of metal and wires and gushing fluid. It will get up soon, she knows, and sprints forward, to its thrashing face. She leaps onto its head, then races down its back, to its disc launcher. She jams her spear under the weapon and strains her entire body backwards as she pulls on the haft with a surge of desperate strength. Metal groans and warps.

The Thunderjaw throws its head back and forth, bellowing at her in outrage. A rope snaps. Then another. Aloy grips harder, spear groaning, feels the metal burn under her hands, braces her feet against the Thunderjaw’s spine, grits her teeth and pulls—

Just as the disc launcher snaps free, so does the Thunderjaw, and Aloy jumps from its back at a height that would kill anyone else. Her armor screeches in protest. She picks up the fallen cannon and turns it onto the Thunderjaw and fires it over and over until the weapon is empty and useless. Throughout the tumultuous explosion, the Thunderjaw has staggered to its feet, half-broken but furious, firing screaming, bloody red lasers that force Aloy to duck and roll into the bushes as fire erupts in the grass around them.

She has no more arrows, no more bombs. She’s dropped her ropecaster. All she has now is her spear, and what can that do? Still, at least she will die with _something_ in her hands.

A shape catches her eye. There, on the rocks—the cannon Petra had attempted to use, along with her fallen bag. Aloy snatches the cannon up—not so much a heavy weapon like the others, since she can hold it one-handed—and with the other, she searches and finds two heavy shells in Petra's bag, loading the weapon frantically through guesswork and then pointing it at the Thunderjaw’s massive head, already bearing down on her. She’s never shot this weapon, doesn’t know what it’ll do, just knows how it was made, each and every piece lovingly forged by the woman Aloy needs to protect right now. It could just as well explode in her hands, but Petra is still on the ground, and there is blood on the rocks next to her, and Aloy will not just stand there and let her die.

She waits until the Thunderjaw is dangerously close, then fires a shot into its gaping mouth. The weapon coughs, chokes, and miraculously shoots. It recoils so hard Aloy’s arm flies over her head, and she barely keeps a grip on the damned thing. A ball of flame roars into the Thunderjaw’s open gullet and immediately explodes. Metal bursts, showering the sky with a glittering rain, and the Thunderjaw screams and falls back. Aloy aims and shoots a second time, the weapon kicking back at her with ferocious power, her shoulder screaming in pain and her armor blatting just from the aftershock alone. The shell hits the Thunderjaw perfectly, flying directly into the open vent on its side.

For a second, there is nothing. Then, as if a new Sun is being born, the entire beast explodes into a million shards, pieces flying so high they become tiny black dots before falling back to earth, no bigger than pebbles.

Aloy is dumbstruck, gasping for breath, feeling as though this has all been a dream. She should be dead. She should— And Petra—

“Petra!” she cries, and races to where the other woman had fallen, hauling her into her arms. “Petra!”

After a few shakes, Petra groans and opens one eye, the other squinting against the stream of blood running from her hair. Though shaken and horribly dazed, she doesn’t appear to be seriously injured. Aloy wants to cry.

Instead, she gets mad.

“I told you to hide!” Aloy snaps, her temper getting the better of her. “You should have listened to me!”

For a moment, Petra looks confused, then furious. She has never been cross with Aloy, and it shocks her. Scowling, Petra pushes Aloy’s hands off of her and stands, wobbling the slightest bit.

“Hide?” she huffs and wipes at her face. “I don’t hide. I’m an Oseram!”

“A dead Oseram, more like!" Aloy says. "What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t thinking _hide_ , that’s for sure.”

Aloy wants to scream. This woman drives her mad! “I can’t fight if I have to worry about you at the same time," she says, wishing Petra would just understand.

Petra squints her eyes and frowns thunderously. “Oh, so _I’m_ the only one who has to worry, right?”

Aloy pauses. This has suddenly become about much more than the Thunderjaw, she realizes. This is about her wandering, her restlessness, her time spent away in the wilds. “No, that’s not—” she protests.

“That’s exactly what it is,” Petra says. Aloy has never heard her so upset. “You know what it’s like. To worry. To wait. I try to work on my weapons, to keep my Free Heap free, but all I think about is you, out there!”

Aloy bites her lip, torn between being guilty and sad. She does know how it feels. She remembers the horrible feeling, waiting in Free Heap to see Petra, thinking she was hurt or worse, the ball of dread sitting in her stomach the entire time. Had Petra done that on purpose, Aloy wonders; stayed away from Free Heap for days longer than expected, headed to Meridian with only a messenger to tell Aloy the news, all to give Aloy a taste of her own bitter medicine?

They've never talked about this, she realizes. The deeper feelings between them. The loneliness, the expectation, the deeply buried resentment. Aloy wishes she hadn't been so oblivious.

“And then I’m actually out here with you," Petra goes on, "and I see this, _this!_ You, trying to take on a Thunderjaw, alone! I told you I had a weakness for restless girls, not _reckless_ ones!”

“I’m not reckless!" Aloy snaps, bristling. "I know exactly what I’m doing!”

“And I don’t? I’m twice your age, girl!”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Apparently not, since you want to treat me like a child!”

“Then stop _acting_ like one!”

They fall silent, both appearing reluctant to truly hurt one another with words alone. Aloy has always known they both had a spitting fire in them, that one day their lines would cross, and they’d argue good and fierce about something important. She just didn’t think it’d be now, out in the desert with a dead Thunderjaw crackling and buzzing in the background.

“It’s fine,” Petra says at last, bruised and battered yet still so beautiful it makes Aloy’s breath catch, even as they yell at one another. Her eyes are wet. Aloy realizes Petra is crying, and feels like her heart is being torn from her chest. She’s never once witnessed Petra cry. “I’ll just worry enough for the both of us. I can take it. Spend as much time as you like out here. Come back to Free Heap whenever you want. That’s what you do anyways.” She stomps off, as if she will walk the entire way back to Free Heap from there, just to make a point.

Aloy feels sick, and it has nothing to do with the beating she’s just taken from the Thunderjaw. The happiness that had bloomed within her the past few weeks has withered and died inside her chest. Is this wonderful thing between them over now? Has it finally been broken? There are still so many things she wants to say to Petra. Is this her last chance?

“I’m sorry!” Aloy shouts at the top of her lungs.

To her immense relief, Petra stops, so she keeps on.

“I’m sorry, Petra. I'm sorry. I just… I’m so used to doing everything alone. I’ve never had to worry about someone else like you. I've been an outcast almost my whole life. Everyone hated me, ignored me. And when… when Rost died, and I left Mother’s Embrace, all I had to worry about was myself. I was alone for a long time. And then everything happened, and the war started and people came together and we fought Hades and killed it, and then—then I was alone again. I didn't have to worry about anyone. I didn't have to care. But then I met you. I've been selfish, thinking I can just leave you, and you wouldn't mind. That you'd just wait for me. I was wrong.” Aloy really has gone on much too long, and her throat is aching from unshed tears and she feels miserable and hopeless, so she rushes and blurts, “Anyways I’m sorry and I love you and I just want to go back to Free Heap with you because you make me happy and I hope you’re not angry with me anymore.”

It’s silent for several long seconds. Aloy looks up. Petra is staring at her like Aloy has just admitted she was actually a cleverly disguised machine this whole time. Aloy rewinds her speech in her head and stutters to a halt, turning bright red. She’d— She’d actually said—

“Well,” Petra says, sounding the slightest bit breathless, “my little Nora's gotten brave, hasn't she?”

“Nevermind,” Aloy says quickly, completely humiliated. She’s never said the words before, those simple three, _I love you_ , because she knew it’d turn out like this, with Petra making fun of her. She whirls away. “Forget what I said. I—”

“Aloy.”

Aloy stops. Petra rarely says her actual name, and never in that serious tone of voice. She turns back around.

“Come here.”

Gulping, Aloy walks up to her. Rather than look her in the eyes, she stares at Petra’s throat. The other woman is still covered in a layer of dust. She smells like burned metal and rancid oil. Aloy loves her so much it hurts.

“I’m twice your age,” Petra says, as if Aloy is too stupid to know this.

“So?” she bites back. “Erend flirts with me. Vanasha too.”

Petra _humphs_. “I’m stubborn and some people say I flirt too much.”

“I never would have guessed,” Aloy deadpans. Petra cracks a smile, but her eyes are still solemn and thoughtful.

“We’ll have to work something out,” Petra decides. “Stay in Free Heap as long as you like. If you have to go wandering, maybe... maybe I’ll come with you, sometimes.”

Aloy stares, utterly stunned. "I thought you said you were done with your adventuring."

"I thought so, too. But if you're my new adventure, well..." She chuckles softly. “Don’t you get it, Aloy? You’re it for me. I can’t be without you.”

Aloy's mouth falls open. Petra laughs again, as if this is all a big joke. She touches Aloy's chin with a gentle finger and looks her right in the eyes. With the utmost sincerity, she says, voice low and warm, “I love you, Aloy.” Then, before Aloy can melt into a molten puddle, she grins wolfishly and says, “Now get over here,” and plants a wet, messy kiss on her lips, making loud, exaggerated noises of passion. Aloy bursts into helpless laughter, breaking the kiss and shoving at Petra’s shoulders, and Petra laughs too, chest rumbling until Aloy turns to face her again, kissing her soundly. It sends a warm shudder from Aloy’s neck to her ankles. Really, what has she gotten herself into?

“Let’s hope Free Heap is still in one piece when we get there,” Petra gripes as they gather their scattered things. She sticks a wad of medicinal herbs into her mouth and starts chewing. Aloy knows from experience it will turn her breath cool and minty by nightfall. She's looking forward to the taste. “Won’t be surprised if those idiots accidentally lead the Behemoth herd right into it someday.”

“Give them more credit, Petra,” Aloy says. “They’re more capable than you think. You’ll have to show them the secret of keeping a town together, if you want to come with me again.”

“Well, that’ll be an adventure on its own, won’t it?” Petra says.

They turn west, toward Free Heap, but to Aloy, she is already home.

**Author's Note:**

> so I've been ruminating a sequel for Heavy Weapons for a while now but had no ideas for another story other than that I wanted a strap-on in it. no joke. a comment on my first fic from user Timballisto asked for the same, so eventually I made a bunch of shit up (which is basically how writing works, I guess) and this came about. enjoy?


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